


Three Men in a Boat

by Multiple_Universes



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Boat trip, Fluff, M/M, Movie AU, POV First Person, Polyamory, Road Trips, Three Men in a Boat AU, Unreliable Narrator, book AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 16:59:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13081260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multiple_Universes/pseuds/Multiple_Universes
Summary: Victor, Chris and Yuuri decide that they are all in desperate need of a boating trip together. A tale that may be just about three good friends travelling innocently together, or might be something else.Based on Three Men in a Boat (by Jerome K. Jerome).





	Three Men in a Boat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ladyofthefl0wers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladyofthefl0wers/gifts).



> This is my holiday present for Ladyofthefl0wers. Thank you so much for supporting me and my mad AUs this year! (I don't know who else will appreciate this AU apart from the two of us, but here it is anyway.)

There were four of us – Victor, Chris, myself and Makkachin that evening. We were having nothing more than a simple dinner when Victor brought it up:

“These last few days there is only one book which has my constant and undivided attention.”

Chris and I lowered our cutlery, wondering what had caught his fancy this time.

“The medical encyclopedia,” Victor declared proudly, showing us the book, as if we needed proof of its existence. “I have been reading nothing but this book and, let me tell you, that – oh horror of horrors! – I am positively sick with every malady described here (with the small exception of pre-labour pains).”

I gave a long suffering sigh. “Perhaps this isn’t a conversation fit for the table?”

“Take you, my dear Yuuri,” Victor said and I confess that I very nearly jumped out of my seat, “I can see by your eyes that you are unwell,” he declared with the authority of a doctor with many years of experience, which he was not. “Now open your mouth and show me your tongue,” he ordered.

I swallowed my food and demonstrated my tongue to him.

“Yes, I can see by your tongue that you are very unwell.”

Of course! I had no doubts on the subject, so I didn’t even argue.

He took my pulse and proclaimed me on the edge of my grave and then raised his glass and drank to my health. That complete, he turned his attentions to Chris.

“My dear Chris,” he began with a smile. “Things with you are rather worse, I am sorry to say.”

“Oh yes?” Chris asked, a mischievous twinkle I his eye.

“Yes.” Victor handed him the medical encyclopedia. “Look up influenza, if you would.”

“Influenza?” Chris repeated in a surprised tone of voice. “I have influenza?”

He flipped through the pages, read the symptoms with a furrowed brow and gave a surprised “hm!” before returning the book to Victor. “Indeed!”

Victor drank to Chris’s health as well.

We gave a collective sigh. There was no doubt in my mind that all three of us were incurably ill.

Makkachin gave a bark, drawing our attention to him.

“Tell us, Makkachin,” Victor said, “are you also feeling ill?”

Makkachin sat up (he’d been lying by the fire) and gave a single bark, which we all took as a defiant “no”.

“Only Makkachin is in good health,” I said sadly.

“There is no reason to fall into melancholy,” Victor said, in a tone of voice I found rather too cheerful for out dire situation. “I have a solution: what we need is exercise. What we must do is leave this foggy city at once and go somewhere.”

“Where?” Chris and I asked.

“I suggest we find an isolated place, somewhere far away from other people,” Victor said, getting carried away as always, “where it will be just us and nature.”

“Hm,” Chris said, “sounds like the sort of place you would suggest, but also extremely dull. I can imagine how far it will be to the nearest public house, not to mention, the utter lack of things to do when there is no one around for miles.”

“Are you suggesting we go on a ship?” I cut in before an argument could start.

“I will get seasick,” Chris protested.

“No, no, a rowing holiday: it will be just us, the river and the sky!” Victor was always a poet at heart. It was his most endearing quality.

“Hmm,” Chris leaned back in his chair and contemplated us in silence. He didn’t argue further, which meant that he liked Victor’s idea.

I agreed as well. The three of us always travelled together and if my two companions agreed on a trip, very rarely would I argue.

And so it was decided that the three of us would go rowing down the river Thames. But, perhaps, I am being unfair to the reader who, not being familiar with Chris and Victor as much as I myself was, cannot understand what or who I am talking about.

Victor Nikiforov is a very dear friend of mine. Unfortunately, I have no time here to describe to you the circumstances of our meeting and the exact nature of our relationship, and, so, suffice it to say that he is the dearest person to me, along with Chris, of course.

Sir Christophe Giacometti – or as Victor and I took to calling him, Chris – was the other person most dearest in the world to me. The three of us studied together and you, dear reader, have no doubt heard of Sir Christophe on more than one occasion. He has an exceptional skill with telling humorous anecdotes (I wouldn’t object to telling you about his other abilities, but I’m rather afraid that I will bore you, dear reader).

I, for my part, lay no claim to fame. I have written a few novels, but I doubt the world can recognize the name of Yuuri Katsuki. However humble it is, however, it is all mine.

 

And, thus, the decision made, we made our preparations and set off several days later. We planned to take a train down to Kingston where I’d arranged for us to pick up the boat which we would then take as far as our fancy carried us.

London was its usual foggy and gloomy self that morning, but we remained cheerful, determined not to let the weather dampen our spirits. When we arrived in Kingston we became convinced that the clouds had parted and that we could see blue patches of sky. The weather was improving, we told each other as we climbed into the boat. It was definitely improving.

Victor reclined comfortably with Makkachin lying on his lap as Chris and I rowed. There was a pleased smile on his face. It stayed even when Chris started to hum tunelessly, which irritated me to no end. Victor was even smiling when one of the oars sent a spray of water at him.

“What a wonderful day! Breathe in that fresh breeze, gentlemen! Can you feel it making you healthy and strong already?” he exclaimed.

Neither of us said anything to that.

“Your rendition of Madame Butterfly is excellent, Chris!” Victor added.

I could see he was in one of those moods when he was determined to enjoy himself, come what may.

“Look at those picturesque clouds!” he went on. “Especially that big, grey one!”

I raised my eyes just as a downpour began.

Victor’s picturesque thunderclouds drenched us all the way to the bone in a matter of minutes.

What could we do then? Caught in a thunderstorm in the middle of the river, we were trapped between water and more water with nowhere to go.

“The shore, quick!” Victor exclaimed and grabbed the oar out of my hand. “We need to put up a tent!”

As soon as we reached the shore Victor fetched the tent from the bottom of the boat, telling everyone he had no need of our help and spread it out on the ground, like someone trying to figure out what to do with it. I cannot say how it happened, but one moment he was mumbling something about pegs and the next – he was crawling around inside the tent, explaining to us that we knew nothing about tents and living without the comforts our rooms offered us.

Chris watched Victor with some amusement before approaching him and offering to help with the tent.

“Really, Chris, I just need some pegs. There were instructions with the tent, but I cannot for the life of me remember where I put them. There was something about holding something up and tying the tent down and –”

Chris had no interest in listening to him. He came up to the pile of fabric, which was all we could see of poor Victor and told Victor he would get his help whether he liked it or not.

“Where is your entrance? Ah. Here it is,” he opened the tent and slipped inside.

This did nothing to help solve the mystery of what should be done with the tent and only served to worsen their moods.

“Yuuri!” they called the moment I found the pegs.

Even Makkachin was pulling my shirt in the direction of my friends. “Makkachin, please!” I called out. “I am on my way, I really am!”

I rushed over to them, pretending I hadn’t found them after all and dropping them carefully into the river. “Gentlemen, forget the tent. We can sleep on the boat.”

“Yuuri,” Victor interrupted like a man whose patience was beginning to run out, “you are completely incapable of life outside your rooms. You disappoint me.”

I had nothing to say to that.

It was no easy task taking them back to the boat and then freeing them from the wretched tent. Nature took pity on us then and the rain stopped.

Promising each other that we would learn how to put it up later, we put the tent away into the boat, where it remained for the remainder of our trip.

 

I spent that night half awake, half asleep on the boat between my two companions. Victor held my hand tightly (like he always did when bad dreams troubled him) and Chris’s nose dug into my shoulder, as he himself twisted into an uncomfortable position. To be fair, all three of us were locked in an uncomfortable position: the boat was simply not wide enough for three men to lie in. But where else could we go?

It was damp and I had to rest my legs on the pile of our belongings to keep them out of the water.

But morning dawned and brought with it a new hope. The sun appeared at last, warming us up and, after wishing each other a good morning, we set forth to empty the boat of water.

To our great delight, Chris promised us breakfast. Victor always remarked that he himself was very good at cooking, but in our five years of living together I had yet to see any proof of that.

Victor, as the self-proclaimed leader of our little group, went on at length about our plans for the day in a cheery voice when a gloomy one interrupted him.

“Aaah… I thought I had more visitors.”

A man stood on the shore, quite unlike any man I’ve ever seen during the course of my life. He was clad all in black. He wore black fingerless gloves, despite the summer heat and held a lantern in his hand, as if he stood in the gloom of night and not the bright light of the morning. “Come with me, gentlemen!” he called. His voice sent shivers down my spine, as if it was coming from the land beyond. “And I will show you the graves of men and women who died in all manner of interesting ways. Some of them were pulled out of the river!” he announced as if that gruesome fact was meant to pique our interest.

“We are on vacation, sir,” Victor said, giving the man a disapproving look. “We have no wish to see the graves of men and women, especially those who drowned.”

“I cannot believe that! No, I refuse to! But you, good sir, surely you understand how interesting this is?” he went on, addressing Makkachin, like someone in urgent need of support.

Makkachin returned to the boat. We took his advice without another word: Chris gathered all of the implements he’d brought with him to make breakfast just as we finished emptying the boat of water. One by one we climbed into the boat and rowed away.

There was no choice but to take breakfast on the boat.

 

Victor sat with a dreamy expression on his face as he told us about the history of the Thames River. I, for my part, am ashamed to admit that I wasn’t paying him much attention and, so, cannot relate it here. He finished his story and held a hand out to each of us. I took the one he offered me, taking care to keep a hold on my oar.

“You can row now!” Chris declared, putting his oar into Victor’s hand.

Makkachin sat at the prow of the boat, giving a single bark each time he spotted another boat.

Victor and I exchanged smiles.

It was a perfect day.

“Tomorrow we’ll go fishing,” Chris declared.

“Nothing would please me more than to have some fish prepared by our dear Chris!” Victor announced with a warm smile. Then he produced his pocket watch and declared it to be lunchtime.

We took great care in dressing for lunch and setting a table. This time we were determined to take our lunch as true gentlemen did.

Chris brought out a tray, covered with a napkin, placed it on the table and then removed the napkin like a waiter in a play.

Lunch that day came not from the river, but from a tin can. We let Chris serve us equal portions each (onto dinner plates we’d brought along for the occasion) and ate the food.

After lunch we found we cared very little for where the river took us.

Victor told us how, in his youth, he entertained the fantasy of becoming a pirate captain. Then he turned and declared that Chris would have been his cook.

“Who will I be, then?” I asked.

“Our navigator,” Chris suggested before Victor could answer. “After all, you are the star the two of us navigate by.”

I admit that I was blushing deeply at the time, unable to find a suitable response to this compliment. Victor agreed and they sealed the compliment with a kiss on each of my hands. To this day, I am still uncertain how we avoided turning over in the boat, but it will come as no surprise to the reader, perhaps, that we lost one oar and spent all evening looking for it.

 

The next morning found us huddled together under a blanket, drifting on the river through the fog. Victor was the one in the middle this time and I dare say I that I clung to him rather tightly. He was also the person who woke us up, declaring an emergency.

“What?” I muttered, my eyes still heavy with sleep.

“I thought I would do some fishing,” he told us, “but I woke up to find us all in a difficult situation.”

“Did we lose one of the oars again?” Chris asked.

Victor gestured wordlessly in the direction of our feet.

To our great dismay we discovered that during the course of the night we’d gotten our legs all tangled up in one big knot. It was the work of several minutes to get our legs free again and then Chris noticed something.

“That cannot be right, surely!” he exclaimed. “How many legs do you see here?”

Victor counted. “Five. How many did you need?”

“Are you trying to tell me that one of us left London on one foot?”

There was a chuckle at that. “The last one is under me,” Victor admitted and rose to his feet to demonstrate the fact.

I’ve often remarked how striking Victor’s appearance was. The day when I had the honour of meeting him, I dare say I could think of little else but his handsome features (and, knowing that Chris will be reading this in the future, I dare add that both Victor and he were rather matched in this respect). That morning I gazed up into his face, finding my thoughts in disarray once more.

He smiled and went to fetch his fishing rod, determined to catch something.

I admit I never saw the joy in fishing. Unlike Victor, I had the patience for it, just no inclination. And, so, it being still early in the morning, I dozed with my head resting on Victor’s shoulder while he and Chris did their best to catch something.

The fog was thick that morning and in my state between sleeping and waking I couldn’t help the thought that the world had vanished and only the three of us remained. I held Chris’s free hand and reflected that I wouldn’t have minded that at all.

“Chris’s hat is frightening all of the fish away,” Victor whispered into my ear and I had to suppress my laughter.

“I heard that,” Chris said. “There is nothing wrong with my hat. The fish like it.”

“And how do you know that? Did they tell you?”

They fell to bickering once more, dropping their fishing rods in favour of standing up and exchanging angry words. With a sigh I held on to them and wondered how to end their arguing.

I was starting to doze off again when I felt a sharp pull. I hardly had a moment to think – let alone say or do anything – before I was dragged into the river against my will.

The water was cold and it woke me up wonderfully as I went down to the bottom of the river, still holding on to the fishing rod.

I have no memory now of what I’d thought then. Perhaps I thought of fish, or possibly of the companions I’d left behind me on the boat. I only remember that a calm mood descended upon me, as if I knew that nothing bad would befall me.

And then two pairs of arms caught me, tore the fishing rod out of my hands and pulled me up to the surface.

I gasped for air as my two companions surfaced on either side of me.

“Yuuri!” Victor exclaimed, pulling me close. “You gave me such a fright!”

Chris, for his part, caught me from the other side, exclaiming the same thing.

I laughed, forgetting that I’d nearly drowned. In that moment I felt the true joy of being alive and wished I could share it with my two companions.

“There will be no more fishing, I’m afraid,” Chris told us, as he climbed onto the boat.

I followed him and then turned around to help Victor climb onto the boat after me.

They didn’t argue after that. In fact, the rest of our holiday passed in relative peace (until Victor decided to take us to a labyrinth he spotted while we went down the river and, boasting he could take us out of it in ten minutes got us so lost that only Makkachin could rescue us from our predicament). I cannot begin to describe what I felt when we returned home together, when Victor raised his glass at the table to toast our wonderful trip, when Chris cooked us all manner of delicious dishes for us to enjoy, when we lay side by side late at night, my two companions having fallen asleep long before me and I contemplated the ceiling of our room in silence, reflecting on how happy I was.

 

_Now, my dear Yuuri, that is not how I remember this trip at all and I’m certain that the reader would much rather hear my account of events (even if they are a little shocking). But, perhaps, at another time…_


End file.
